The Secret of Spandau (28 page)

The date was informative. On 20 May, Churchill had ordered General Wavell in Cairo to prepare to move into Syria – the about-face that had stunned Middle East Command. Catroux was the Free French General who led the advance into Syria. This was obviously de Gaulle's pithy reply to what he had so long worked for, and now achieved: the agreement by Churchill to the Syrian adventure. And there could be no doubt any longer why Churchill had capitulated over Syria.

He had even come to heel over Djibouti. Dick read all the remaining messages to Churchill in the envelope, and it was evident that, from 20 May, Britain had enforced the blockade repeatedly urged by de Gaulle.

The story was there. Proof positive. An investigative journalist's dream come true.

Dick turned to his fairy godmother. ‘Madame, it would help me enormously to photograph these messages for my newspaper. There would, of course, be a generous payment.'

‘Take anything you wish,' Madame Guillon told him. ‘They've been sitting at the bottom of my wardrobe for forty years, so I'm not likely to miss them. I shall still have plenty of others.'

‘Thank you. I can't begin to say how grateful I am. I believe you're not on the phone. Where is the nearest public one?'

‘In Plévenon, not more than two kilometres from here. Go down the lane and you'll see the sign.'

He thanked her again at the door, gripping both her hands. She would never understand the extent to which she had helped him, or the significance of her carton of messages, in rewriting the history of the Second World War.

He checked the time. A few minutes after 6.00 p.m. Still, unbelievably, Monday. Cedric would be at home in Henley, but Jane was going to be the first to hear. A transferred charge call from France would cause a flutter of excitement in Brook Green.

He raced so rapidly down the granite steps that suddenly the bulky envelope slipped from under his arm. He grabbed for it, cursing his clumsiness. Up there on the headland, the precious messages could have scattered literally to the winds and the waves.

He had not bothered to lock the Porsche. He opened the door, tossed the package onto the passenger seat and stooped to get in. Then he froze.

Something jammed against his ribs, and somebody said in English, ‘Hold it, Mr Garrick.'

He didn't know the voice. He turned and looked into the eyes of a total stranger. Tired, narrow eyes in the face of a man in his forties who needed a shave. A forgettable face, compact and undistinguished. The clothes, too, fell into the category of nondescript – a check shirt and faded blue jeans.

‘What do you want?'

‘The package, Mr Garrick. Reach in and get it, would you? This is a gun in your side, in case you were not certain.'

‘Who are you?'

The gun jerked hard into his ribs. ‘Get it!'

There might have been something a Hollywood stuntman could have improvised to outwit the gunman, using the car door and some acrobatic leap, but it was not in Dick's repertoire, and he knew it. He believed in that gun, and he believed it would be used if he didn't obey. So he obeyed.

‘How did you get onto me?' he asked, as he handed over the messages. ‘I didn't see you following.'

‘Got here first,' the gunman answered simply. ‘Didn't need to follow. I knew where you were going. Had twenty minutes start on you.'

‘How did you know?'

‘Listened in. It's not the glass against the wall these days, you know. Things have moved on.'

‘What are you, MI5?'

‘Get into the car now, Mr Garrick. You're going home.'

Dick got into the Porsche. The gunman still covered him through the open window. ‘OK,' Dick said. ‘You've got the papers, but I've still got the story. I know what happened, and I'll bloody well make sure it gets into print!' He started up, revved and moved away at speed.

He would still go down to Plévenon and phone Jane. He had been robbed of the evidence, but they couldn't take away the knowledge he had. He would pass it on to Jane and Cedric, and they would get in touch with Red. It would all come down to Hess and how much he would say, but that was how they had planned it from the beginning. They had to shock the old man with the truth and let him tell the story.

The Porsche was moving fast, too fast for safety on the
corniche
, the narrow cliff road. Dick touched the brakes slightly. There was no response. He pressed the pedal harder, but the car, if anything, went faster, accelerating on the downward slope. The brakes were useless.

The bastard had tampered with the car.

He tried changing down. The gears were functioning, but there was a tight bend ahead and he was not going to get round. He knew he was not going to get round.

The muscles of his stomach flexed as the Porsche failed to respond. It was too much to ask of any car. It went into a screeching skid and broadsided off the road, smashed through a wooden barrier and careered over the cliff.

The car was falling, turning, diving through the air.

You're going home
.

He thought of Jane and the message she would never receive. And Madame Guillon, who had not understood what it was all about. And Churchill and de Gaulle and Hitler, all dead. All silent.

The car plunged a hundred feet and hit the rocks.

Dick's spine was severed by the impact. He died instantly.

‘Red.'

He felt a hand creep over the small of his back and come to rest on his left buttock. The fingers pressed gently into his flesh.

Tuesday morning. He opened his eyes to check the time from the clock on the bedside shelf. 6.55. He closed them again and did some arithmetic. Heidrun had to be at work by 8.30. She needed to leave by 8.00 to be sure of the bus. She would want twenty minutes in the bathroom and fifteen for breakfast. That still left a gaping half-hour. He stayed immobile and began to simulate the regular breathing of deep sleep.

The hand slid over his hip and assertively down towards his crotch. The fingers found some hair, teased it out and curled it around one of them like a ring.

‘Red.'

He tensed, anticipating one of Heidrun's playful squeezes. Playful could be painful for the recipient.

‘You
are
awake!'

‘Not really.'

She pressed against his back. They had both slept naked, Red from habit, Heidrun because she had not been back to her apartment since Sunday.

She murmured in English, ‘Turn over.'

‘Too tired, love.'

‘I am not wanting sex.'

‘You really mean that?'

‘I want you to hold me.'

He rolled towards her and put an arm around her. She clung to him, grasping his shoulders.

‘Red, I'm scared of Kurt Valentin.'

‘Scared of that jerk? He's rubbish. Forget him.'

‘There are others. There will always be others.'

‘Coming home to roost?'

‘I don't understand. What does that mean?'

‘Tell them to piss off, you have other fish to fry. It's a mixed metaphor, but they'll get the message.'

She gave a heavy sigh and lapsed into silence.

‘I ought to get up,' she murmured after a while, but without much conviction.

‘True,' said Red, smartly unwinding himself from the embrace. ‘Is the table-tennis still on tonight?'

‘The Moabit match? Yes,' she answered bleakly. ‘I don't think we shall win without Cal. I'll have to play the doubles with Frank. He's rubbish.' She sat up and slid her legs off the bed, then stood up entirely and started her exercise routine, standing astride and rotating her hips, hands clasped behind her head. ‘I wish I knew what is the matter with Cal. I'm sure if he really wanted, he could have changed the shifts to make sure he played tonight.'

‘He told you,' Red reminded her, watching the work-out; it was a spectacle worth sitting up in bed for, even after two heavy nights. ‘He has to fill in for some guy who is off sick.'

‘I don't believe him. He told me once before that he could always get time off. He isn't being honest with me.'

‘Maybe he's had enough table-tennis.'

Her answer to that was to turn her back on him and touch her toes.

Later, after Heidrun had left for work, Red gave the matter some undivided thought. There was something in what she had said. It was mean of Cal to let her down after he had promised to play the matches with her. The impression Red had got was that Cal was dependable, the sort of guy who kept his promises. Conclusion: either Cal had been ordered by the prison directors to stop mixing with the locals, or there was some conflict of loyalties, and Heidrun had lost out on this occasion. On balance, the second explanation seemed the likelier. Could it be anything to do with Hess?

The lone prisoner in Spandau was notoriously wary of the prison staff, but he seemed to have got on terms of some sort with Cal. And Cal's few utterances about Hess had conveyed a certain respect for the old man, even a sneaking admiration for his bouts of insubordination. He had said on Sunday that Hess had been unsettled by something he had read in the paper about an old building in Munich being destroyed by fire. Maybe Cal was helping Hess over an emotional upset, putting in extra time to keep him from getting too depressed.

Strange that a burnt-down building should bother Hess at all. It wasn't as if he had spent his childhood there; he had been raised in Egypt. Maybe there was a link with the founding of the Nazi movement in Munich, the beerhalls where Hitler had first sprayed spit and racism over anyone who would listen. Perhaps it was a beerhall that had just gone up in smoke. Most of last week's papers were still lying about the apartment. After a shave and a few bites of breakfast, Red gathered them up and searched for the report of the Munich fire. He couldn't find it. He took out a cigarette, put up his feet and told himself his job was reporting the news, not reading it.

Then he had his inspiration. Cal worked shifts. If he had fixed an extra evening on, it followed that he ought to have the morning off. What better time than now to look him up at home and get to know him better, for once without Heidrun in attendance?

He slung his jacket over his shoulder and took the next bus out to Spandau.

Cal had lodgings in the
Altstadt
, the ‘old town', at the meeting-point of the rivers Havel and Spree. Red knew the name of the street, but he would need to ask for the number. Cal had lived several years there, so someone ought to be able to help.

His luck was in. Two-thirds of the way along Reformationsplatz, who should he meet but the man himself, dressed for once in a jacket and slacks, complete with grey and blue striped shirt and brown, hand-woven tie?

‘Hi,' said Cal, without looking too delighted. ‘How're you doing, pal?'

‘Great! So you are off duty. I was coming this way to look you up. Thought we might have a coffee or something.'

Cal was already edging away. ‘That would be nice, but I have an appointment this morning.'

‘Obviously.'

Cal glanced down at his clothes and smiled self-consciously. ‘Yeah.'

‘Anyone I know?'

‘Probably not.'

‘Some other time, then?'

‘Sure.'

Cal nodded and moved on rapidly. Red stood back, watching for a while, and then followed. He had tumbled to the strong possibility that Cal had not, after all, cried off from the table-tennis match to spend the evening with Hess, but to keep his appointment this morning. If Cal believed it was worth getting out of a tracksuit for, it had to be important.

Cal moved briskly through the old town towards the pedestrian walkway of the shopping complex, past the black fountain where the husbands chatted while their wives went round the supermarket shelves, and south to the bus station. He got straight onto a waiting bus, paid the driver and went upstairs. It didn't look like moving off right away, but Red increased his pace to be sure of getting on. Then he pulled up short.

Ahead of him, a mere ten yards or so ahead and about to climb on the bus, was Heidrun's
bête noire
, Kurt Valentin, accompanied by two other guys Red didn't recognize. They were all in suits. If they were going to the same place as Cal, Red thought, he wished he had brought a tie with him. It looked like being a dressy occasion.

When they were all safely upstairs, he entered the bus. He didn't join them. He felt more comfortable among the elderly and disabled.

It was now a matter of watching the exit-stairs at each stop. In the movies, they would all have had fast cars and raced along Spandauer Damm ignoring the traffic-lights. It was more sedate on a fifty-four bus, but it suited Red. His driving wasn't up to much.

They travelled three-quarters the length of Spandauer Damm before Cal's brown shoes and camel-coloured slacks appeared in view on the stairs. Red swayed out of sight behind an old man reading
Stern
. Right behind Cal came Valentin and his three friends, exchanging conversation like any businessmen, not in the least like shadows.

Red let them and a couple of other passengers get off before he left his seat. Cal had already started along Königin Elisabeth Strasse, and the others were crossing to the other side, but they turned in the same direction when they got over.

Coincidence could now be ruled out. They were tailing Cal as surely as Red was. The guy on Valentin's left was the shortest of the three, but the best-dressed. His grey pinstripe was definitely tailored, probably by Selbach or one of those big-name outfitters on Kurfürstendamm. His dark hair was thinning at the crown, but he still had about fifteen years on Valentin.

Those two continued to talk, for the most part ignoring the third member of the party, who was a head taller than either of them, and broader in the shoulders. The back seam of his jacket looked to be under strain. It was the kind of cheap blue suit you buy in chain-stores without trying on the trousers. He was carrying a large, black briefcase.